


This Is Much Better

by QueenElizabeth



Category: British Actor RPF, Doctor Who RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Thick of It (TV) RPF
Genre: Comfort, Comfort Food, Comfort Reading, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Snow, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4507239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenElizabeth/pseuds/QueenElizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A winter weekend evening on the couch with the bae. Total RPF comfort daydream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Much Better

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lornesgoldenhair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lornesgoldenhair/gifts).



> Inspired by this photo: http://lizabuffw.tumblr.com/post/125931393947/doctorfriend79-peter-capaldi-the-twelfth

"How much time is left on the oven, baby?" you inquired kindly, peering over the top of your tablet.

Peter leaned back and adjusted his specs so he could look over their top to read the illuminated numbers. "Seven minutes, and like ten seconds," he reported.

"I can't wait that long," you jokingly bemoaned, eliciting a soft chuckle from your companion.

“It does smell good,” he agreed, returning his attention to the sketch he was working on.

It was the perfect lazy December Saturday night. Nowhere to be, nothing at all to get done. Just you two, keeping each other warm on the couch while a gentle snow fell outside your grand windows.

The whole house smelled comforting, like a cocoon sheltered away from the harsh outside world. That baked ziti wafted from the kitchen with its notes of warm tomato and oregano, sweet basil and a top note of golden melting cheese. It joined the smell of the fireplace across the room, which crackled and hissed with vigor.

You questioned whether you could possibly be more content, as you saved your latest work and looked down across the couch at Peter. You wore one of his cardigans over your t-shirt and yoga pants, even though it was way too big, because you claimed you were cold. Really it just smelled like him, and you wore one often when he was away working. Your feet were in his lap, swaddled in wooly socks and tucked beneath a plaid fleece blanket. He studied his sketchbook page intensely. Paused. Began scratching away again with his pencil.

His hair was adorably messy, a pile of energetic curls, in the manner which you liked to call, “floofy,” which was how it almost always looked on his days off. He wore a soft baggy jumper with sleeves which were almost too long, in a pale blue, which made his eyes look technicolored.

You laid down your device and sat up a bit to sneak a view at his drawing.

“It’s not done yet,” he insisted, though he enjoyed your interest.

You slid your legs out of his lap and scooted closer, and he closed the book quickly, securing the band across it.

“You don’t have to stop,” you said with a laugh.

“Nah, this is much better,” he replied, placing the book and his pencil down on the nearby table.

He turned again to face you, and wrapped you in his arms. Pulled you over and up into his lap. You melted into his embrace as he smiled at you warmly, eyes wrinkling endearingly.

“This is better, probably, yeah,” you said quietly.

He leaned toward you for a kiss, and you ran your fingers through the unruly curls at the nape of his neck. This was much better. You kissed him so lovingly, with your eyes closed, allowing yourself to float dreamily. He brushed your hair back away from your face with his strong, warm hands, and looked at you with adoration.

The oven harshly bleated its news that your pasta was finished, and you hopped up to retrieve it.

“I’ll get that,” Peter offered, as he always did with anything which was hot, or up over your head, or heavy. “You do wine,” he said, tugging at your hand to keep you from completely leaving the couch.

“You got it,” you replied.

As he stood up to head to the kitchen with you, he held onto your hand and guided you to face him for one more kiss.

“It’s still snowing…” he said, in a near-whisper, staying just as close to you as in his kiss.

“Yeah, it’s supposed to snow all night,” you said.

“Good,” he declared with a smile, walking you hand in hand to grab that meal.


End file.
